“I’m trying to talk to you.”
Wampler let his suspicion run its course while he pictured Mary Kate Boyle. Last he’d seen her, one of her eyes was puffed up purple and her lips were cut. But she had a good figure and one of them alluring smiles when her mouth wasn’t all swollen. He’d been pissed off at Skull for messing her up, but what could he do? You couldn’t fight a guy that big. You could kill him but that wasn’t fair. “I was in El Centro for a while. That’s where Lyle and Brock got busted and I got away. I’m out of that desert now. Like I said, I’ve got my money and now I’ll get myself a place to stay. A good place, not some trailer. You going to come join me in it or not, Mary Kate?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sound like you might could.”
“I’ve got friends in San Diego.”
“I ain’t moving to San Diego, girl. We went to see some business contacts there. Too many people in that city.”
“What kind of place you looking for?”
“What kind of place you looking for?”
“Someplace I don’t get hit by Russell County hell-raisers, Clint. I’ve had enough of that for the next about hundred years.”
“How about the beach? Chicks like the beach.”
“It’s up to you.”
“I can’t believe you’re coming to see me. I feel happy about that.”
“I never said it was to see you.”
“It ain’t what you say, MK, it’s what you do. I got a real nice Sebring, decent sound and just about new. One of my friends out here, he owns a Ford dealership. He set me up with a good deal.”
“What color did you get?”
“Kind of a gunmetal gray.”
“Why’d he sell you a Dodge if he owns a Ford lot?”
“What kind of question is that? It’s a used Dodge. What are you talking about, Mary Kate?”
“Shall I call you when I get to California?”
Clint thought about that for a short moment. “No. You don’t call me. I call you. You driving or the bus or what?”
“Trailways. And I’ll need to be picked up, Clint. I can’t be dragging luggage all over San Diego.”
“Clint’s your man! What a great day this has been. How are those lips of yours healing up?”
“Not bad.”
“So, whatcha wearing right now, Mary Kate? That black lacy top with them little shiny things on it?”
She hung up and Wampler laughed but didn’t call back.
• • •
He met Castro off a dirt road near Jacumba to deliver the Stingers. The night was cold and the breeze hissed in the treetops. Wampler blew into his hands while Castro opened and closed the crates, then started loading them into a beaten-up old F-150. When Castro had pushed in the last crate and closed the squeaky tailgate, he started toward Wampler, reaching inside his sport coat. The pistol seemed to just appear in Wampler’s hands, holding steady at Castro’s forehead.
“Oh no,” he said, stopping instantly. “I’ll take my hand out slow, Clint. It’s going to have a pack of smokes in it.”
“Anything but smokes’ll get you dead.”
“Watch this.” Israel pulled his hand from behind the breast of the coat, a half-flattened red-and-white package held between thumb and forefinger. He shook a cigarette into the opening and offered it to Wampler.
“Your hand ain’t shakin’, Mr. Car Dealer.”
“I’ve had guns pointed at me before. So put it away.”
Wampler spun the pistol around his finger with a gunslinger’s flourish and a smile, then pocketed it and snatched the smoke. “How come you’re driving that shitty old truck?”
“Less attention.” Castro lit Wampler’s cigarette, then one for himself. “I got some people who want to meet you, Clint. And I got a buyer for seven more of those Stingers at thirty-five grand apiece.”
“You work fast.”
“I work when there’s work. Life is like that, Clint. It just goes along real slow, day to day, you get up, you get bored, you go to sleep. Then swoosh, off it goes in some crazy way you least expected. The trick is hanging on. Letting it happen. Letting it pay.”
“You got all sorts of advice for me.”
“I’m trying to be helpful. I have young sons. When they’re your age, I hope I can offer good advice to them, also.”
“Good advice? Like selling stolen missiles to a drug cartel?”
“Cartel? Good guess, I’d say. You’ve got a quick mind, Clint.”
“I get ahead in life by taking the stuff I want. And I never took one thing from anybody who wanted it less than I did. The only difference is I’m smarter and meaner. And faster. Maybe that’s the biggest and best difference about me. I’m faster.”
“So do you want to do seven more Stingers?”
“You just pony up seven times thirty-five and they’ll be yours. Clint will take care of you.” Seventy-seven grand in the pocket, he thought. Seventy-seven grand!
“Clint, I can do better than that. I’ve got a sweet new Explorer that just came from the factory. It’s one of the most beautiful SUVs Ford’s ever made. I’m talking the good V-eight, shift-on-the-fly four-wheel drive, traction control, cobalt blue, cream-colored leather, tow hitch with electric, premium sound, Ford’s own electronics that beat the hell out of Bluetooth. Extra-dark tinted windows, navigation, off-road tires, and a free year of Sirius. It’s something a young man like you could feel real good in. Women like the white leather and the blue. My plan was keep it for myself. I haven’t even prepped it yet, but I’ll let you take it as partial payment for five hundred over invoice. Just as a gesture of goodwill, Clint. Thirty-nine five. Thirty-nine five.”
Clint puffed on the cigarette and flicked some embers into the cold wind. “Plus you’ll take this piece of shit Chrysler back, right? For the five grand I done already gave you for it.”
Castro sighed and looked over at the Sebring, then back at Clint. “That’s a nice little car for five grand.”
“Then take it back and sell it for six.”
“Okay, Clint. You have yourself a deal. You’ll get exactly one quarter of a million dollars for seven Stinger launchers, seven missiles, and the Sebring. Of that amount, thirty-nine thousand five hundred are the new Explorer. I’ll have the fleet manager do the paperwork and I’ll get one of the junior salesmen to deliver it to you.”
“So the paper don’t point to you.”
“That’s the way it works.”
A new Explorer and sixty thousand five hundred dollars, thought Clint. Not bad for a day’s work and a few more hours tomorrow or the next day. Mary Kate, you’re gonna love me. Love me a lot!
32
The next afternoon the Department of Justice sent Hood an economy-class e-ticket from San Diego to Washington, D.C., for early the next day. He would appear for testimony the following day, then fly home.
The flight was rough and arrived slightly ahead of a powerful Atlantic storm. Hood took a taxi to the ATF headquarters on New York Avenue, arriving in a darkness swirling with snow. He had time for a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee across the street before going in. He watched the bureaucrats and office workers bundled in overcoats and scarves bustling onto the Metro Red Line. He carried his overnight bag through the snow and into the building and went through the scanner, then gave his name at the desk. An intern met him and took him up. The building was new and sleek, with faceted glass walls and a feeling of openness even in the winter dark. The hallways and offices were laid out in angles that challenged logic and memory. From an upper story Hood looked down on the courtyard and the lights of the district muted by snowflakes.
Acting Deputy Director Fredrick Lansing stood as Hood came into his office. He hovered, sallow faced, then sat and pushed a thin stapled collection of papers to Hood. “Grossly’s subpoena and your hotel for tonight. You’re testifying under oath before the House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform at nine tomorrow morning. They’ll want you to answer the same questions you answered before, and God knows what else. Tell them what you told them the first time and you’ll be fine. So long as it’s true.”